


A Road That Never Ends

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hiatus, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27818206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Sherlock is alone and cold and longing for home.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 30
Kudos: 94





	A Road That Never Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here we go on the 2020 Advent series. I am hoping that it takes at least a week before I fall behind, but no promises! All you can be sure of is that I will indeed finish. Hope this journey [two journies, really] will help to brighten this odd holiday season. I have taken prompts from several different lists, so we shall see how that turns out. As always, I love hearing from you.

We are weary travellers trying to find our  
way home on a road that never ends.

-Bray, L.

It was a clumsily improvised fantasy, driven equally by exhaustion and desperation. The bitter cold had seeped through his second-hand clothing, his slightly too large boots and, it felt like, into his very soul. People who knew him would no doubt have been surprised to realise that even his scientific and logical mind sometimes retreated into fantasy.

Well, except that no one knew him anymore. At best, he was now just a fading memory of someone from the past. Being dead did that. Some days he was surprised to look in a mirror and see that he had actually not faded to sepia.

The late, maybe not so great, Sherlock Holmes. Gone and by now probably forgotten by most of the world.

He first realised the usefulness of pretending when he was still very young. Striding about the deck of his pirate ship giving orders to his crew was much better than listening to a teacher drone on about learning to read, when he had mastered that art long before setting foot in his Year One classroom. Eventually, he created a room in his mind palace solely for his favourite fantasies, the ones that helped him get through awkward social situations. Well, all social situations, actually.

Of course, he was not a child now. Instead, he was a dead man walking. A dead man on a mission.

But, tonight, it was so cold and the snow was falling at an ever-increasing rate and his toes felt as if they were going numb. Tonight he was so very tired.

It felt as if he might have been trudging through the mountains of Tibet. An explorer or a pilgrim lost in a blizzard. No, definitely an explorer. A Norwegian named... Sigerson. Trying desperately to find the monastery that would provide a safe refuge. Or so his contact in the government had said, months ago. Maybe that contact had lied. This might all be part of a plot to be rid of an irritating nuisance.

Sherlock used the back of his filthy glove to wipe at the mucus running from his nose.

It was all make-believe, of course. A made-up story to keep him sane.

Mycroft had never told him about a safe refuge in the Hengduan mountains. Mycroft never even wished him good luck.

The fantasy was diverting enough, but Sherlock knew that he was not in Tibet, had never been there and had no desire to visit. At least not in the winter.

Instead, he was in New York City, on the trail of yet another Moriarty associate. The city was in the middle of a snow storm, but there were still a lot of people walking around, probably scurrying to do the last of their Christmas shopping only now, on the 23rd. Sherlock huddled into the entirely inadequate charity shop coat and stopped to look into yet another department store window. In his opinion, none of the ones he had seen so far were a patch on those produced by Fortnum and Mason. Or even Harrods.

But this one caught him unawares and he moved closer, staring at the scene on the other side of the glass. A cosy sitting room. A bright fire. Two chairs. The cheerful clutter of a room that seemed lived in. He even liked the slightly old-fashioned Christmas tree and the two knitted stockings hanging from the mantel.

Sherlock had no trouble populating the room.

He could even imagine the conversation between the two men sitting there.

_“...and how a poisonous plant came to symbolise romance I will never understand.”_

_“Yes, well, as long as you avoid standing directly under it, you should be safe.”_

_“Are you even aware of the symptoms of mistletoe poisoning?”_

_“As a doctor, I have a passing familiarity with it, yes.”_

_“The poisonous proteins, Phoratoxin and Viscotoxin, can cause blurred vision, fever, hallucinations and nausea. Oh, and heart problems.”_

_“I like our tree. Reminds me of the ones from when I was a kid. Not the Watson tree, of course, but the ones I could see in other houses. Thank you for digging out those ornaments,”_

_“Mummy insisted I take them.”_

_“Well, it looks very nice. Thanks to you both.”_

_“I don’t suppose you want to hear any more about mistletoe.”_

_“Oh, I don’t mind. Let me just make some more tea.”_

_“There are 1500 varieties, you know.”_

He stood there for far too long and then had to hurry to get to the homeless shelter before his pass was invalidated and his camp bed given away to someone else. Luckily, he made it with five minutes to spare. He drank a cup of the free but too-strong coffee, longing for a cup of [John’s] tea instead.

His exhaustion was so great that he could not sleep, although he needed rest in order to be ready for the confrontation that awaited him the next day. He wanted to think that it could all end smoothly, with Hamilton being trussed up like a Christmas goose and then anonymously delivered to the authorities. Hopefully, Mycroft’s minions had prepared the way.

Unless his brother had lied to him. That was always the unpleasant possibility.

Instead of sleeping, he found himself back in that sitting room from the department store window, in one of those chairs, telling John about his adventures, telling John how happy he was to be home again. Telling John so many things. While he was thinking about those things, his body finally succumbed to the weariness and he slept.

If he dreamt, he was not aware of it.

**


End file.
